


Hell or High Water

by jadrea



Series: Wasteland Roaming [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Diamond City, Ghouls, Goodneighbor, Synths, Wasteland, aroace characters, aromantic asexual characters, intersection with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: Fitz Mosby has a knack for getting in over his head and it's starting to catch up to him.('Commonwealth Ghost' arc: Episode 4 of 5)
Series: Wasteland Roaming [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874065
Kudos: 1





	1. Fortune Favors the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a hellish mix of chems in his veins, Fitz Mosby can only hope help awaits him in Goodneighbor. And, if he survives, he can only hope he'll get the chance to repay the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: needle mention, vomiting

"Hey, Nicky Valentine." The Mayor greeted them as the detective pushed open the door. "Quite a racket out there, huh? That yours?"

"Got raiders on our tail, Hancock," Valentine replied. "Could use some help getting 'em off us."

"So you lead them straight here, how kind." John Hancock peered at the limp figure shuffling along at Valentine's side. "That Fitz Mosby? Hey, man, got a job for you if you're interested."

"He look like he's in a state to take a job, Hancock?" The words were called over Valentine's shoulder as he hurried around the corner, headed for the Memory Den.

"You never know." Hancock shrugged and turned his attention to the raiders pounding on the door. He drew his pistol. "Alright, alright, I'm comin'."

Mosby didn't hear the exchange, didn't hear the gunfire just outside the city walls. Didn't hear or see or feel anything, in fact, until he abruptly felt the pinch of a needle on his arm. He jerked, let out a roar of pain and surprise but the sound came out hoarse and stifled.

He heard an irritated sigh and an unfamiliar voice say, "For heaven's sake, hold him still."

Hands caught hold of his shoulders, pushing him back into a chair--he was in a chair, a creaking, uncomfortable chair--and heard the voice continue,

"I've got plenty of other patients to attend to today, Valentine, if he's going to be trouble-"

"Just jab him already," came the gruff reply.

Mosby felt the needle on his arm again and tried to free himself, tried to struggle, but the hands held him in place. His vision cleared in time to see a woman remove the needle and saw a vial of blood, tinted an odd orange-red. The woman grimaced.

"That's certainly something new."

"Where am I?" Mosby hardly recognized his own voice.

"Goodneighbor." Valentine released his shoulders. "This is Doctor Amari."

"Charmed," the doctor replied, though there was hardly any enthusiasm behind the word. She bent over a microscope, peering at a slide beneath. Mosby could see the bright orange of the blood--his blood, god, was that his blood--across the room. "You say someone injected him with this at the Combat Zone? Some raiders?"

"Raiders, Gunners--who knows." Mosby scowled through the pain in his gut. "Didn't get a chance to ask."

"If they're associates of Kellogg's, they're hardly on the up-and-up," Valentine remarked.

Amari moved to a terminal, watching it carry on an analysis of the substance, and the room was silent but for the _tap-tapping_ of the keys.

"Well?" Valentine asked.

She sent him a stern glance. "This sort of analysis takes time, Detective. But so far it seems to be a mixture of chems--Psycho and Jet, mostly--and X-Cell."

"The hell is that?"

"Steroids. An experimental drug from before the war. This mixture isn't like anything I've ever seen, it's highly reactive. Very strange..." She trailed off.

Mosby looked around, trying to slow his racing heart. "What's that mean?"

"Hm," Amari said, by way of reply. She tilted her head, reached into her pocket and retrieved a scalpel. Crossing the room to Mosby's side, she said, "Pardon me."

Before Mosby had a chance to ask one of a hundred follow-up questions, she plunged the scalpel into his arm.

Valentine let out a startled shout, "Amari, what the hell-"

Mosby watched the blade enter his skin, watched it leave. Couldn't feel it, wouldn't have known it was there unless he'd been looking right at it. The three fell silent as they watched the wound seal almost as quickly as it was made, watched the skin knit back together until not even a scratch remained.

"Interesting," Amari said, glancing at the scalpel to see it was slightly bent. Marking it a write-off, she tossed it toward the trash and returned to the terminal. "It seems to exponentially increase the cell's natural regenerative powers."

Mosby returned to that plethora of follow-up questions, none of them polite, but the bile rose in his throat again and he leaned over the side of the chair, heaving a mouthful of orange-red goo to the floor.

"If that's..." Valentine started, glancing from the ooze on the floor to the ooze in the microscope, "Doc, what the hell is that?"

"Blood, or something like it." Amari didn't look up, eyes fixed on the terminal. "Yes, that's...hm. If I didn't know any better I'd say this is Institute tech. This sort of cell-altering experimentation is right up their alley."

Mosby was reeling, could barely hear the conversation as it went on above his head.

"Who says it isn't?" Valentine asked.

"How would this raider get his hands on an experimental Institute serum? It seems rather far-fetched."

"Maybe he bested a synth patrol, or killed a courser. Maybe he's working with them--that doesn't matter. But if it's Institute-made, then they might have made an antidote, right?"

"Not necessarily." Amari crossed her arms. "And even if it was Institute-made, and they did have an antidote, there's no way to get it. They wouldn't just let something like that go."

"Doc," Mosby finally found his voice, "Doc, how do I-how do I stop this?"

Two pairs of eyes landed heavily on him. He couldn't look up, could only stare at his hands.

Amari paused before replying. "I'm not sure."

"Can you at least take a damn guess?" Valentine snapped.

She gave another irritated sigh. "An antidote is a long shot. Usually the effects of such chemicals are temporary, lasting only a rather short time. But when combined in this way, in what seems to be such a high dosage..."

"Please." Mosby looked up, his hands clenched to fists on his knees. "If you can't-if there's no...just kill me. Please, I can't live like this."

"Hold on, kid, don't go jumping in front of bullets just yet."

A pensive look crossed Amari's face. "I suppose we could try...but it would be quite dangerous, no guarantee it would work."

She tapped a few more keys on the terminal.

"Radiation. Perhaps we could flush your system with rads."

"Fine," Mosby said, only half-listening, "do it, anything-"

"I'm no doctor," Valentine frowned, "but that sounds like a terrible idea."

"It is," Amari agreed. "As I said, it's quite dangerous. There's a chance it won't work, but if we could neutralize the effects of the chems--really, it's the X-Cell we need to worry about, though the levels of Psycho in his body are near-lethal."

She turned to the man in the chair. "It is up to you, Mosby. Understand the risk involved-"

"I understand." He wiped a fist across his mouth, struggling to speak through a spasm of pain that wracked his body. "I'd rather die in control than live...like this."

The doctor nodded. "We must work quickly, it's already quite a lot of time to damage your body. We can only hope the damage isn't irreversible."

She moved to the memory pod in the corner and dragged it to the center of the room. "It will take a moment to ready the system."

Valentine's face was grim. "You sure about this, kid?"

That dark red haze crept over Mosby's vision again, showing him dripping blood and torn flesh.

He swallowed the bile and nodded. "It's really looking like you'll never get those caps now."

Valentine scoffed. "Don't want your caps, kid."

"I hope you find Kellogg." Mosby had to force the words through gritted teeth, his hand pressed to his chest, to the knife that at once was and wasn't in his heart. "Hope you can help that Vault Dweller. And if you find the bastard who did this, kill him for me."

The detective pushed his hat back on his head and blew out a quiet sigh. "I will."

"Gentlemen," Amari called, "we had best get a move on."

Mosby struggled to his feet, staggered over to the pod, all but falling inside. The pod closed, the lights went dark, and there was a moment of quiet. Alone with the blood pounding in his head, he swallowed the bile one last time.

Then, all at once, he realized the pain he thought he knew, the pain he thought he understood, was nothing. Nothing at all.

*

"We found him, boss."

Fink jumped at the voice. He glared at the newcomer, a Gunner who, for the occasion, had traded his uniform for the rumpled rags of a trader.

"Keep your voice down," he hissed.

Sitting at what had become his usual table at the Colonial Taphouse, Fink quickly waved the Gunner into the unoccupied chair. He scowled down at the latest issue of _Publick Occurrences_ , with its front-page article claiming to expose ties to the black market from within the walls of Diamond City.

"Never know who's listening."

The Gunner, obligingly, lowered his voice. "We found the Vault Dweller. Watched that synth detective like you told us, and the man showed up. Last night, you musta seen him."

"I was..." Fink swallowed, "otherwise occupied. Where'd he go? Did you follow him?"

"Left the city in a hurry. Headed east. Looked all out of sorts, like he'd been hitting the chems a bit too hard." The other leered. "Guess he ain't used to life above ground."

"East," Fink repeated. "Just 'east'? I need more than that, you idiot, where did he go?"

"Got into a fight with some raiders just out of town. Then he and that detective headed toward Goodneighbor. But you don't need to worry, boss, the Vault Dweller didn't look like he'd last the night. In a real bad way."

"Go after him. Make sure he didn't make it. Understand? _Make sure_."

Fink watched him go, then turned his glare back to the newspaper. Damn nosy reporter. He swept the paper to the floor, and the attending Mr. Handy swept over to retrieve it.

"I passed along that complaint for you, sir," Wellingham informed him. "Ms. Wright shan't bother you again."

"Good. Good." Fink scowled over the rooftops of Diamond City. "That's the last thing I need."

*

The woman said she was looking for somebody. Seems plenty of people in the 'Wealth were looking for somebody, for reasons good or bad. It wasn't a merchant's place to judge, he supposed, but the sort of business he was in required certain people to stay in the shadows. So when somebody came around looking for somebody, Old Man Stockton wasn't always inclined to help.

"Don't know anybody by that name," he said, stacking a row of cans on his counter. He was careful not to disturb the lantern at the edge of the bench, careful to leave the light visible to those who knew to look for it.

"He must've come through here," she snapped. "Bastard's 200 caps richer now, 200 caps that don't belong to him. We'd like them back."

"Sounds like a problem you ought to have seen coming." Stockton kept his expression even. "Ought not to be so trusting with your caps."

The woman scowled and turned away, heading for the gates of Bunker Hill. She'd questioned each of the merchants, made her intentions known, shouted that name loud enough to startle the birds out of nearby trees. Nobody knew it, least not that they'd admit.

But nobody hid from the Pillars forever.

"You looking for Mosby?"

The mercenary glanced over to see a ghoul huddled on a bench, nursing a bloody leg.

"You know him?"

A hard look came over the ghoul's face, though there was fear in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. Last I saw him was at the Combat Zone, in the Theater District. Dunno if he's still there." The ghoul spat on the ground. "Son of a bitch is crazy. Just follow the blood and corpses, you'll find him."

Her eyes narrowed. "You expecting to get something out of this, some caps for your good will?"

Salenti shook his head. "Just kill the bastard, that's good enough for me. And make sure he stays dead this time."

The ghoul seemed genuine enough, and he certainly had his priorities in order.

"You ever think about making a chance, finding a better life," she said, as she headed for the gates, "come find the Pillars. I'm sure we've got a place for you. Anybody who wants Fitz Mosby dead is a friend of ours."


	2. Blood from a Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mosby's no gumshoe, but if it means paying off his debt to Nick Valentine, he'll try his hand at solving a mystery, and do his best not to get them both killed in the process. Back in Diamond City, Piper Wright finds an unlikely ally.

It's odd for a dead man to wake up once. To wake up twice takes a remarkable bit of luck.

The circumstances were lost on the man in question, who came back into consciousness with a ragged gasp, clawing at his chest, at the knife he was sure was there. His hand found nothing but a threadbare blanket and the torn shirt beneath.

Fitz Mosby blinked, stared up at the ceiling. He was...alive. He was alive. Sore, aching, but alive.

There was no rush of fire in his blood, no visions of ripping flesh. No wish for a fight, no more than usual. His heart wasn't pounding, its beat was sluggish, but steady. He was slowly coming to realize how remarkable the whole thing was when the door opened.

"Ah, you're awake." Doctor Amari closed the door behind her and appraised him. "For a day or two, you had us wondering if you'd make it. How do you feel?"

His voice came in a croak. "Like hell."

"I can imagine." She crossed the room and lifted one of his arms, which he was noticing for the first time bore a bandage. "Apologies for this."

Amari prodded the covered area, drawing a few beads of crimson blood, and Mosby winced.

"We wanted to see if the procedure worked. Had to...cut you up a bit. Good news, it doesn't appear to have healed." She set the limb back down and he quickly moved it out of her reach, lest she get the notion to do it again. "It seems you are back among us mortal men."

"Thanks, Doc." He pushed himself up in bed, his head spinning. "I'm afraid I'm a little short on caps at the moment, but if you give me time, I can get you what you're owed-"

"Valentine settled up already." She checked his pulse, frowning to herself. "I've heard you're the guns-blazing type. I suggest you avoid such excitement for a few days, unless you want your heart to explode."

"Valentine settled-?" Something she'd said caught his ear. "My heart...what about my heart?"

She was already walking toward the door, and he struggled to pull his legs from beneath the blankets, calling at her retreating back,

"What d'you mean, my heart'll explode? Doc? Doc, are you-"

The door shut on his words. He swore to the empty room, which wisely opted not to reply.

Kicking off the blankets, he rose to his feet. Made it one step, two, before his knees buckled and he fell face-first to the splintered floorboards. He swore again, awkwardly dragging himself to the wall and dragging himself up, inch by painful inch.

He finally reached something akin to his normal height, though he was slightly stooped as he bent his head and struggled to focus on which of the three hazy doorknobs was real. His random swatting was rewarded as one of the knobs turned and the door opened, sending him stumbling into the hallway.

Mosby looked around, blinking hard. Hotel Rexford, how'd he get here? The others must have dragged him through Goodneighbor and dumped him in a room--he supposed he should be grateful they didn't dump him in the gutter.

His off-kilter steps took him down the hall, down the stairs, into the lobby.

"Hey, man-" Fred Allen began.

For a split second, Mosby was tempted to take him up on his offer of chems. Something to clear his spinning head, a bit of Jet to get the blood pumping. Then bile rose in his throat, and his jaw tightened.

"A beer," he interrupted. "I need a beer. Cold, hot, I don't care--you got anything?"

Allen rifled through his satchel. "Got this old Gwinnett stout. Ignore that the cap is off...look, I only took one sip, alright, I was thirsty-"

Mosby snatched it from his hand and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. He handed the bottle back and turned away.

"Hey, what about my-"

Mosby waved him off and crossed the street, headed for the only place in Goodneighbor worth going. The Third Rail offered beer that was something close to cold, and an array of less-than-desirable company. And, hopefully, it offered a chance to get a looming weight off his head.

He scanned the room and spotted the back of Nick Valentine's head, engaged in a conversation with the resident crooner, Magnolia.

"You're sure about this?" he was asking. "Place is crawling with Gunners, you think she'd really go there?"

Magnolia's reply was too low to hear across the room, but it sent Valentine's head bobbing thoughtfully. The crooner excused herself to sing the next set and Mosby cleared his throat.

"About those caps."

Valentine laughed. "You don't quit."

Mosby sat on the stool next to him, nodded to Whitechapel Charlie for his usual. "I don't like having too many favors hanging over me."

"Good to see you're still kicking." The detective's eyes flicked to the bandage on Mosby's arm, then flicked away just as quickly. "I'm sure Amari told you it was a bit of a rocky road to get you here."

"How long was I out?"

"Few days. I had some business back in Diamond City, but I thought I'd check back up on you, see if you were up and about yet. And looks like you are."

"I appreciate it." Mosby accepted the ale from Charlie and took a swig. "Now back the matter of payment-"

Valentine laughed again, though the sound hardly seemed genuine. His eyes darted over to Magnolia, the metallic fingers of his right hand tapping on the bar. "Already said I don't want your caps, kid."

"I'll pay extra just to get you to stop saying that. Hardly a kid."

_Tap-tap._

"Last time I checked, I've got 200 years on you."

"C'mon," Mosby set his bottle down on the bar with a sharp thunk, "I'm not in the habit of owing people favors. 'Specially not favors this big. It's hardly my damn fault you made the mistake of helping me, at least let me make things square between us."

_Tap._

Valentine's eyes narrowed. He thought for a moment.

"The Vault Dweller was supposed to meet me a few days ago, but never showed," he said finally. "So it seems I've got a bit of time to kill. Got a new case. Could use some help." Before Mosby could speak, he raised a finger. "On the condition you'll drop the damn caps. I may be the mechanical one, but it's you who sounds like a broken record."

Mosby picked up the bottle, considered the offer.

"What's the case?"

"You know Magnolia?" He glanced over at the crooner as she finished a song and paused for the scattered applause. "Her friend's gone missing. Thinks she may have gotten tangled up with the wrong people."

"What sort?"

Valentine shrugged. "That's what I'm going to find out. I'm headed for the Financial District, and I doubt it'll be as easy as waltzing in. Whoever they are, I'm sure they'll put up a hell of a fight."

"You got a place in mind?"

The yellow eyes narrowed further. "Mass Fusion building."

"Ah." So much for avoiding excitement. "Alright, we storm the fort, get the girl, then we'll call it even."

Valentine gave the bar a few final _tap-taps_ and stood. "Then let's get a move on."

"Put this on your tab, should I?" Charlie called crossly, as Mosby rose to follow.

Mosby ignored him and followed the detective toward the door. "I need to make a stop first. Pick up an old friend."

"Fine, fine."

*

Preston Garvey didn't get to Diamond City often. He tried to avoid it, to be honest, as the merchants tended to rip off travelers and the Security guards were quick to harass any passerby they thought might cause trouble.

But he was hungry and sore from his trek across the Wastes, and tired of searching without knowing exactly what he was searching for. He stopped for a moment to marvel at the blinding lights and brightly colored awnings of the market, but his eyes were drawn away by a small voice to his left.

"That's a funny hat."

Garvey looked over to see a small girl atop an old, splintered crate, with a newspaper held high overhead. He chuckled. "Thanks."

"You one of those Minutemen?"

A Security guard passed by, eyeing him warily, and he made a point to keep his hands far from the laser rifle slung across his back. "Sure am."

The child regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Thought you were all dead."

Preston's smile became a tad more forced. "You and everybody else, it seems. Know where I can rent a room for the night?"

"The Dugout." She pointed down an aisle.

"Thanks."

He started to turn away, but she spoke again. "Read the latest issue of _Publick Occurrences_. Smuggled guns and half-baked chems, who's supplying these goods to Diamond City?"

She thrust the paper into his face and he jerked back to avoid it. The blinking sign overhead caught his eye.

"That newspaper's still running, huh? Glad somebody's fighting for truth."

"My sister's the one doing it. She's in jail for trying to tell the truth." The child leaned closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Somebody doesn't want it getting out."

As much as he wanted nothing more than to sit down, take his boots off, maybe get his hands on an ice-cold brew if he could find one, Preston found he was, unfortunately, interested in what she'd said. So instead of trudging down the aisle to the Dugout, to the bed and pillow that he could swear was calling his name, and he found his feet directing him to the Diamond City Security office.

"-lied!" The woman in the cell was shouting, pounding on the bars. "Talk about unlawful confinement! Just you wait until I-"

There was only one Security guard in the room, and they didn't appear to be listening to her. They turned to greet Preston. "Who're you?"

"Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen."

He frowned as the three burst into laughter.

"Minutemen? You're still around?"

"Yes," he said flatly.

"Thought you were all long dead."

"We're not."

"You're with the Minutemen?" the woman called. "There's some injustice going on right here, that's your job, right? Prevent injustice, protect peoples' rights?"

"We certainly try-"

"Ignore her. That's Piper Wright, local rabble-rouser." The guard glowered. "Nothing but trouble."

"I've been in here for two days now," Piper shouted. "Two! Without visitors, without being allowed to send a message--I was told it was overnight, which was unlawful in itself, but this is-"

"You keep saying 'unlawful' and I'll break your damn printing press, Wright."

Garvey was regretting his decision more and more by the moment, but could hardly back down now. "You should let her go. Sounds like you've no cause to hold her."

"I'll have you know she's in there for harassing residents." The guard turned on him, crossed their arms. "Now, you'd best be going, toy soldier. Hate for you to get mixed up in something that doesn't concern you."

Preston stepped forward. "You remember who saved your asses from those mutants? That was us, the Minutemen."

"That was years ago," the Guard retorted. "The 'Wealth doesn't need you anymore, we never did."

_Think of the beer, Preston. Ice-cold beer, a bed without too many fleas. Don't be stupid, now--_

"Ain't nothing left of your pathetic little outfit anymore, 'cept a few idiots in stupid hats."

Damn it.

Before he could really think about what he was doing, how bad of an idea it was, what a remarkably stupid choice he was making, he balled his fist and struck the guard across the jaw. They reeled back, a dumbfounded look on their face, and sprawled in a heap on the ground.

Piper blinked. "Well, that worked. Grab the damn key and get me out of here."

Garvey shook his hand, his fingers aching, and retrieved the key. "Just for the record, this is not usually how we operate."

The reporter pushed past him the moment the cell door was open. "Maybe you oughta change things around."

"Hey, hold it-" Preston tried to stop her as she reached the door. "They just going to let you walk out of here?"

"I was going to run. Seemed like a better idea. You should, too, they don't take too kindly to jailbreaks around here. And, well, it's pretty clear how they feel about the Minutemen, too." She paused, looked him up and down. "Although...you're one of the good guys, aren't you? You Minutemen, that's your thing."

Garvey scowled. "I thought so."

"How'd you like to help the good guys come out on top? Stop somebody from getting their mitts on something that could do a lot of harm to a lot of people?"

"What sort of something?"

"Some kind of weapon." Piper's eyes gleamed with an excited light. "I don't know what it is, but I know who's looking for it. We find him, maybe we can stop him before he finds it."

"I'm in the middle of something, looking for somebody myself. Scavver named Mosby."

"You're in luck, he's the one who told me about the weapon." Piper pulled the door open. "Small world."

"You're telling me," Preston said, exasperated, following her down the tunnel toward the market, "that you don't know what you're looking for, you don't know who's looking for it-"

"I do," she interrupted, "a man named Fink. I don't know why he's looking for it, that's the question. But I know he's funneling goods into Diamond City. Well, alright, I don't have any hard evidence, per say, but he's got to be. And I'll bet this weapon, whatever it is, is going to pass through Diamond City, too. We've got to find it first."

Garvey kept his head down, tipping the brim of his hat forward to cover his face as they passed a few guards headed back to the Security office. One cast Piper a suspicious look, and she quickened her pace toward the city gates.

"I just wanted a beer," Preston muttered. "Just a beer and a bed for the night."

"This is better." She held her finger to her lips as they passed the young girl outside the newspaper offices, and the child scowled and crossed her arms in return. "We might just save the world."

*

Valentine turned at the sound of the elevator doors opening. He frowned. "Thought you said you were picking up a friend."

"I did." Mosby brushed a bit of dust off the hunting rifle. "This is George."

A cache of bullets and caps now resided in his pockets, retrieved from a nook that had, as he'd hoped, remained untouched since he'd stowed it away. The crown jewel of his collection--if you could call the odd handful of guns he'd hidden around the 'Wealth a collection--was the old rifle, one that had saved his life on many occasions, which fired smooth and steady despite radstorm and rainfall.

The detective raised a brow. "I hope you don't expect me to shake his hand."

He peered out the door of the ruined skyscraper. The position afforded a glimpse of the bright sign a few stories up the Mass Fusion building, just visible down the block.

"Going in the front door hardly seems like a bright idea. Gotta be a better way in."

"I'll hold your hat if you want to start climbing."

Valentine didn't humor him with a reply. He slipped into the street, sticking to the shadows cast by the high noon sun, and headed toward the towering building. Mosby followed a few steps behind.

He heard a tell-tale stomping and crouched lower, let out a quiet whistle. "Mutants nearby."

To his surprise, the synth turned toward the noises, turning down a side street. After a few blocks, he paused and peered around a corner. The words floated back over his shoulder. "Side door."

"Well, ain't it our lucky day." Mosby glanced back in the direction they'd come. "You really think Magnolia's friend made it past those mutants?"

There was no reply. He turned back to see Valentine had disappeared.

"What the-"

Mosby saw the detective vanish into the darkened doorway and hastened around the corner. He hurried to catch the synth as he climbed the stairs.

"You think she made it past the jolly green giants? If she's that heavily gunned, maybe she doesn't need our help."

Valentine sent him a sidelong glance. "Didn't think you were one to shy away from a fight."

"I'm not," he grumbled. The stomping footsteps overhead grew louder as something came closer--something big. "Not usually. Now I've got an explosive heart to worry about."

Nick sent him another curious look, but didn't follow up on the subject. They carried on up the stairs, through the hall beyond, which, aside from the stomping overhead, was eerily quiet. Just ahead, a ramp of jagged metal sheets led up to the next floor. The hall continued beneath it, leading to an open door.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood."

Mosby frowned. "Huh?"

"Sweep this floor," Valentine said, by way of reply, "then get up to the next floor. I'll head higher and start sweeping down. We'll cover ground quicker that way. If you find the girl, get her out, we'll meet back in Goodneighbor."

"I guess that's a plan," Mosby replied, opting not to say that it was hardly a good plan, but he was hardly one to talk.

He ducked his head beneath the ramp as Valentine began to ascend. Eyes set on the door, he heard another loud clamor of stomping overhead. Strange--it had a decidedly metallic ring to it.

The door at the end of the hall opened into a walkway over the main lobby. Mosby glanced down, judged he must be about three floors up. And the building was, what? He had no clue how many stories, had successfully avoided going higher than an occasional foray into the lobby and had, until now, planned to keep it that way. If he had to climb the stairs all the way up, the mutants would be the least of his worries.

Mosby crossed the lobby, keeping his head down, though there didn't appear to be anyone around. He tried not to think too hard about it.

He swept through the offices on the other side of the lobby, found nothing of note except for a few stray bullets. Another staircase, another empty floor. And another.

He'd almost convinced himself he'd somehow imagined the stomping overhead, and that the building was actually empty, until he opened the door to a balcony on the fifth floor and ran face-first into a mutant.

Mosby swore, fired three quick shots into its back before it could turn. It roared and slumped to the ground, and he pressed back against the door, scanning for more. The wind whistled through his hair, the dim lights of the city visible below.

The balcony was quiet, and he forced his feet into motion. Crossing to the other door, he eased it open. The coast seemed clear.

He'd barely taken a step out before a booming shout rang out overhead and sent his skull rattling. He ducked, raising his rifle, but the shout wasn't directed at him.

A mutant, just visible through a hole in the floor, reared back in pain as two shots caught it in the chest. It let out another roar. Mosby eased closer.

It hadn't spotted him, even as he drew closer to the gap in the floor, even as he raised his rifle and lined up the shot. His bullet struck it in the forehead, snapping its head back, and sent it crashing to the floor.

He listened for a moment, heard nothing.

"Who's up there?" he called.

A quiet shuffling came in reply.

"I'm no mutant, and I'm guess you aren't either. You-" He paused. Valentine had told him the name, he'd been listening...probably. What was the name... "You Cassidy?"

A face appeared in the hole, a scowling woman with blood spattered across her cheeks. "Claude."

Not even close. Good thing this detective gig was temporary, he wasn't cut out for it.

"Magnolia's looking for you." He eyed the downed mutant. "Seemed to think you'd gotten into trouble."

"Mags worries too much."

The face disappeared, and there was a sudden and rather unpleasant squelching. Blood oozed across the floor, dripping down the hole and nearly landing on Mosby's upturned face. He grimaced and quickly stepped back.

"The hell are you doing?"

A super mutant's hand appeared and he raised his rifle, only to see it was attached to a human arm. "Getting a trophy."

Mosby's grimace deepened. He muttered, mostly to himself, "What the fuck kind of job..."

"Didn't tell you I'm a hunter, did she?" Two hands, no longer attached to their body, flew through the hole. A foot followed. "Big game--deathclaws, mutants, whatever."

"That's great," Mosby said, only half-listening, "but we really ought to get out of here before more of them show up."

There was another loud squelch at Mosby's feet, and he looked down to see the slack-jawed expression on the severed head. Claude sheathed her knife and lowered herself through the hole in the floor, dropping to the walkway beside him.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Mosby," he replied. "Can you get your shit so we can get out of here?"

The woman sighed, gathering up the scraps and stuffing them into a satchel, already full to the brim with a similar macabre collection. It oozed blood down her back, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Don't worry." Her eyes flicked skyward. "They're occupied with those steel-encased fools, there are only a few stragglers in the lower floors. Guess I've got all I can carry today."

She turned toward the ramp, and Mosby followed.

"Seemed she had nothing to worry about, then," he muttered.

"Mags never liked my line of work, she's not the blood and guts type. You've seen her, likes to keep her hands clean, and all that. Got an appearance to keep up, people to entertain."

"She's got an odd taste in friends."

Claude snorted. "You could say that."

As the two descended the ramps to the lobby and walked right out the front doors, unmolested, he grew more irritated by the second. What a waste of time, this was the job that'd repay his debt? Rescuing somebody who didn't need rescuing, spending far too long climbing through a rusting metal heap. And all after Valentine made it sound like--

He stopped. Glanced up.

"What d'you mean, 'steel-encased fools'?"

Claude didn't notice he'd stopped, or didn't care, carrying her dripping trophies back to Goodneighbor. "The Brotherhood, they call themselves. Stomping around in their power armor, nothing but-"

Mosby was already hastening back through the door, across the lobby, toward the blinking light of an elevator he'd spotted in the far back corner. He needed to get some altitude and fast, and he'd be damned if he was going to climb all those fucking stairs again.

As the elevator ascended, Mosby could hear shouting and an odd rumbling overhead. He pulled his hunting rifle off his back and held it in a loose grip, ready for a fight.

There was a pleasant _ding_. " _Eleventh floor_."

The doors slid open to reveal a burst of fire, and Mosby recoiled. As the flames cleared, the source of the shouting became apparent: a handful of humans in uniform he didn't recognize--bright orange jumpsuits, with text he couldn't make out--scrambled for cover around the hallway, taking on a half-dozen Super Mutants. The humans appeared to be losing.

Mosby surveyed the scene for a moment, then an errant laser blast hit the wall next to his head and made up his mind for him. He hammered the elevator button until the doors slid closed again and told him in a pleasant voice, "Going up."

Was he acting on a hunch? Absolutely. Did he have a plan? No, not one to speak of. Was this a good idea? Probably not.

But Fitz Mosby made it a point not to owe anything more than a bar tab. And he'd be damned if that fucking detective died without giving him a chance to make things square. It wasn't good to owe a dead man a favor, you never knew when they might come to collect.

 _Ding_. " _Phhssshhrrrhhfffkkblp_."

"Aw, shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me a bit of creative liberty in my redesign of the Mass Fusion building, specifically in the side door and elevator operation. Just roll with it.


	3. Dizzying Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz Mosby didn't start out on the best of terms with the Brotherhood of Steel, and things are only going downhill. Can he save Nick Valentine before learning the hard way whether or not synths can fly?

Sure, he should keep away from excitement. The doc had--well, she'd hardly been clear about anything, but she'd at least mentioned that. Stay away from excitement.

But, though he'd claim otherwise, when it came down to it, Mosby hardly ever did the smart thing, the sane thing, even the reasonable thing.

Which would explain why his feet were carrying him from the elevator, across the floor, at a dead sprint, rather than a slow, soft pace. Why he'd opted for a direct approach, rather than a stealthy creeping.

Why he was leaping onto the back of the nearest suit of power armor and wrapping his arms around its neck.

The Brotherhood fighter shouted, their laser rifle letting loose a few stray beams as they suddenly became aware of the weight on their head. Mosby drove his knee into the back of the suit, hoping to hit something, anything important. He didn't know the first thing about mechanics, opted to move fast and relatively unguarded rather than be weighed down by the hulking metal suits.

He got lucky, then, when his knee his the bright yellow fusion core in the center of the suit's back. There was a crunch and a few plaintive beeps as the suit powered down, cracking open to reveal the increasingly bewildered figure inside.

Mosby didn't pause to dwell in his surprise, instead dragging the man out and ripping the laser rifle from his hand. He fired point-blank into his chest, wrinkling his nose at the stench of burnt flesh, and ducked behind the open suit.

Least it was good for something. The others weren't too keen to fire at their own, hadn't seen the man get ripped from the suit, had only caught a glimpse of Mosby's blurry outline as he'd launched himself onto its back.

He fired a few blind shots and considered his options.

The elevator doors had opened to reveal a room full of steel--four figures stomping around in power armor, one more visible out a door on the far wall, which opened onto an observation deck over the city.

He'd taken out one with relative ease, but hardly had the element of surprise for the rest.

"Soldier?" Mosby didn't have to look to know he had three laser rifles trained on his location. "What the hell just happened?"

Mosby looked from the smoking rifle in his hand to the smoking body on the floor. The others still couldn't see around the empty suit, couldn't see anything more than the fact it had opened and its occupant had gone oddly quiet.

"Back up," he shouted, gripping the corpse. "Got your man over here and if you want him alive, you'll back the fuck up."

There was a moment's pause, before the voice rose again, "Cease fire. He's got Smythe over there."

"That's right." Aw, what the hell was he doing. "Now, you're going to get in that elevator and leave."

"Like hell!"

Alright, he admitted, maybe that was a bit too ambitious.

"You want your man dead? Keep standing there."

Quickly, he rifled through the corpse's pockets, found a mutifruit and a few fusion cells. Then--a frag grenade.

"Smythe?" one of the others called. "Status report, you alright?"

Just one grenade against three tin cans. Not the best odds. If he could just get onto that observation deck, make a bottleneck in the doorway, pick them off and hope the ammo held out that long...

He risked a glance around the empty suit. Two were huddled close together, the third close to the doorway. He'd have to be quick. If he missed, he'd be fucked. He was probably fucked anyway.

Setting his sights on the lone figure, he sent a barrage of fire toward its legs, sending chunks of metal flying. Pausing for just a moment, he ripped the pin out of the grenade and threw it, firing overhead to keep the figures in place. They held position for a moment, two, started to move away--

Boom!

He fired through the cloud of smoke, aiming haphazardly at anything that moved, until the fusion cells were spent. He threw the empty rifle away and listened. A few gurgles, metal grating on metal.

The two who'd been caught by the grenade were dead, pinned down as their legs were swept out from under them. The third was still shifting, dragging itself toward him. Seemed these were the type to go out in a blaze of glory.

Mosby didn't think too long and hard about the final figure out on the balcony, why it hadn't come running, why it seemed to be occupied with something just out of view. He moved to the crawling figure and ripped off its helmet, throwing it aside.

A bloody, snarling face looked up at him. Young, looked to be barely 20. The hate and fear in his eyes sent Mosby's stomach turning.

"You Brotherhood thugs never should've come here," he told the face. Then he brought the butt of his hunting rifle down on its forehead with a sickening crack.

He moved toward the open door.

"You out there," he shouted. "Took down four of your men, here's your chance to leave before I get to you."

A scuffling on the balcony beyond. A grunt of pain, audible over the wind shrieking through the open windows.

He inched closer. "You hear me?"

"This wasn't your fight, civilian." Mosby was close enough now to see the source of the voice, the final Brotherhood soldier, his helmet blasted into jagged pieces. His arm was outstretched as he shouted, as if it were reaching for something. "But you'll pay for what you did."

Mosby stepped into the doorway, leveling the rifle in its direction. His jaw tightened.

Not reaching for something--holding something. Someone. A detective, his hat blown off, hands scrambling for purchase as he dangled out a hole in the wall. Feet kicking above the city far below.

"I was right about you fucks," Mosby spat. "Peaceful intentions my ass."

"We bring peace," the man retorted, "to the citizens of the Commonwealth. To those who deserve it, not this scum, passing itself off as something it's not."

Despite his circumstances, it seemed Valentine couldn't resist, "Kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Mosby moved forward. The Brotherhood soldier turned toward him and let out a sharp laugh.

"I recognize you. You're that ghoul-lover."

"This your great Brotherhood plan?" Mosby tightened his grip on the rifle. "Hunt down every synth and ghoul just trying to live their lives and kill 'em, one by one?"  
"If that's what it takes."

"Now that's a great idea. Real geniuses up there in that flying lump of metal, did it take all of you to think that up? Or do you just have the one brain that you take out and pass around?"

"You watch your mouth, scum."

"You've just got that one insult, huh?" Mosby moved closer, eyeing the observation deck. Not a lot of cover, a few upturned desks, the ground covered in broken glass. "Anybody you don't like is scum, ghouls are scum, synths are scum, the merchant who stiffed you on that pile of scrap metal is scum-"

He was delaying, creeping further inside the room, moving toward the nearest desk, hoping he could distract the soldier, move him away from the windows, get off a few shots--

Then, abruptly, he realized he'd run out of time.

"The Brotherhood will cleanse the Commonwealth," the man snarled, "one freak at a time."

Then he opened his hand and Nick Valentine plummeted out of sight.

Mosby was firing before he knew what he was doing, one shot was enough but two more followed, blasting the soldier's head into bits, sending spatters of blood and brain across the windows.

As the power armor fell with a floor-quaking boom, he scrambled to the edge, bile rising in his throat.

And saw, to his surprise, two hands, clinging to a creaking, rusted beam.

He tossed the rifle over his shoulder and thrust his head over the edge, nearly falling out himself.

"Fucking shitting hell-"

Mosby hooked one arm around the leg of a nearby desk, straining with the other. His fingers brushed the detective's coat sleeve, but he couldn't quite grasp his hand.

"Grab hold," he shouted, over the roaring wind.

"Can't," Nick grunted as his fingers--flesh and metal alike--began to lose their grip, "I'll just pull us both down."

"Take my goddamn hand!"

"Shit-" Valentine's coat whipped around his legs, he cast a glance down and quickly looked back up, his eyes wide. "You get Claude out?"

Now was hardly the time for a pleasant conversation, though the detective seemed to have other plans.

"Yes," Mosby's shoulder felt like it was coming out of its socket, he leaned as far as he dared, then leaned a bit more, managing to brush the back of Valentine's hand, "probably already back in Goodneighbor by now. But you won't get the damn credit for it if you're busted into bits."

"Tell Ellie-"

"Oh, would you-"

With an effort fueled more by irritation than anything else, feeling the jagged edges of the hole in the wall digging into his neck, he stretched until he was holding onto the desk with nothing but his fingertips. He seized the nearest sleeve, felt himself start to slip forward, and flailed until his legs caught on a desk, a chair, something behind him that miraculously decided to stay in place.

Valentine's other hand caught his wrist and, for a moment, Mosby thought the synth meant to pry his fingers off. Spitting curses, he heaved with all his might and the grip on his arm tightened.

"You fucking stubborn-" Mosby hissed, through gritted teeth, "son of a bitch-"

He pulled until Valentine's shoulders were level with the floor, until the detective could catch the edge of the hole with an elbow, tearing his coat in the process, and drag himself up to sprawl amid the broken glass.

Mosby scrambled to his feet, panting. Valentine rose to his knees, tried to push himself up the rest of the way and noticed the fingers of his right hand were bent and twisted. He blinked a few times.

"All you synths so damn bullet-headed?"

Nick glanced up. He looked windswept, one of his cheeks dented slightly from the force of the soldier's fist. He blinked again. "I couldn't say."

"Well," Mosby straightened, pressing a hand to his chest and hoping that wasn't enough excitement to--well, you know, "I'd say we're even, now, yeah? You saved my life, I saved yours. Even. Square."

"Sure." The detective finally found his footing, and glanced back out the hole in the wall, staring out over the city far below. A distance he'd nearly become quite intimately acquainted with. When he looked back, his expression was bemused. "Sure, we're even."

*

The raider at the door laughed aloud when the mercenary approached.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Looking for somebody. Was told they were here."

"Sorry, sweetheart, regular crowd ain't here. You'd best move along."

"Man named Mosby."

The raider, her face a macabre mess of scars, paused. Her eyes narrowed.

"What do you want with 'im?"

The mercenary glowered. "I wanna kill the son of a bitch."

By way of reply, the raider turned and shouted into the theater. "Boss, somebody you oughta talk to."

She turned back. "Quite a coincidence, we'd like to get our hands on him, too. Seems he slipped between our fingers. We might have a job for you, though, unfortunately, you won't get to kill him."

"No way," the other spat. "Pillars want him fucking dead."

"But," the raider continued, with a sly grin, "all goes to plan, you'll get to watch him die. Surely that's the next best thing? Invite those friends of yours, they're welcome to come."

The Pillar mercenary's eyes narrowed. "I'll have to talk to Brother Thomas."

"Then let's talk to him," a voice in the doorway said. The speaker's smile was genuine, though there was a decidedly unpleasant quality to it. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement."

*

The route from Goodneighbor to Diamond City wasn't usually this convoluted, didn't usually take a traveler through so many side streets and double-backs. But both men were low on ammo and even Mosby, for once, wasn't looking for a fight, so they took what could only be described as the long way around.

To Mosby's stumbling feet, it seemed like they'd walked the entire perimeter of the ruined city, though he knew that wasn't possible. On the third switchback in a row, this time to avoid a roving horde of ghouls, Valentine spoke up.

"You look like hell."

Mosby looked over. He scoffed.

"You're just full of compliments, aren't you?"

"Looks like you need a rest."

"What are you, my damn babysitter?"

There was a hard edge to the reply. "Hardly. I find myself as your traveling companion, more reluctant by the second. You can hardly stay sharp if you're dead on your feet."

"How about you drop it, Valentine?"

It was foolish to think that would work. "Me, I don't need to sleep, but you..."

"Alright, fuck, fine. I'll bed down for an hour or two. You go on, I'll catch up."

"So eager to rid yourself of this ol' rust bucket?" Valentine was already scanning their surroundings, set his sights on a promising bit of land. Sheltered by a hill on one side, it nestled against a collapsed house, only one wall of which still stood.

Mosby scowled. "All the same to me."

He found a spot on the wall, hoped the overhang of the roof would protect from a radstorm, should one happen to blow in. He leaned against the wood planks and crossed his arms, and, though he'd successfully avoided the thought of it for hours, found himself quickly pulled headfirst into sleep.

There was fire in his blood and it was cold, a burning cold, so cold he knew he'd never be warm again. He'd forgotten what it was to be anything other than cold.

He felt the life ebbing away, dripping out, trickling down around the blade in his heart. He tried to pull it out but his hands were too slick with blood. And he felt it dig deep into his chest, knew it'd be the last thing he ever felt--

Mosby flinched awake, gasping for breath, sure there was a knife in his heart and oozing blood in his throat.

But there was no knife, no blood. Just the rough wood of an irradiated wall at his back, the quiet rustle of leaves overhead, and a pair of narrowed yellow eyes peering over at him through shadows cast by flickering flames.

Valentine had lit a fire, was absently warming his fingers over it, though the motion likely didn't do him much good. He sat against the hill a few feet away, loose dirt trickling down the back of his coat.

"You alright?"

"Don't mind me." Mosby forced his hands back down to his sides, looked away. "Just need a few more minutes."

Exhaustion pulled him to sleep again before he could hear the reply, if Valentine had even bothered to give one at all.

His vision was dark, nothing all around. Floating in a pool of empty, like ducking your head underwater and being deafened by the silence.

Darkness.

Pain. Pain in his chest, a burning cold. Licking at his veins, raising the calls for blood. Spill blood, others' blood, it didn't matter whose. Spill the blood because it's rage that fuels you, Mosby, that drives your hands. It's anger and fury that keep you alive, not fear, you're not afraid. Never afraid.

But that darkness, that feeling, that reminder. That burning cold and that knowledge that this is it, this is the end, god, not like this. And there was fear, ripping through him, twisting his gut. He was afraid, so dark, so cold, and the licking, burning flames were--

His head was in his hands, nose brushing his knees. It wasn't the thick coppery scent of blood that filled his nose; rather, wood smoke. A fire, crackling merrily a few feet away, twigs snapping as they were consumed. And a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake, accompanied by a gruff voice.

"Mosby? Wake up, kid."

He reached blindly for the hand, didn't mind that his fingers met a metallic skeleton instead of flesh and bone, just needed to feel something real, something that assured him he was awake, was alive, wasn't drowning in that pool of emptiness.

He was gasping for air, could hardly breathe around the blade that was-- _wasn't, Mosby, it's not there, nothing's there_. Was ashamed to find tears running down his nose.

"Take a breath," the voice told him. He found it a reasonable suggestion and obliged. "Your body's been through the wringer, s'pose we can't be surprised there are some side effects."

Mosby quickly wiped a sleeve across his cheeks and slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.

"If you want to..." Valentine released Mosby's arm and sat back on his heels. "If you want to talk about anything, I'd be happy to lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on, whichever you prefer." He gave a wry smile. "Synths are good listeners, it's in our circuitry."

Mosby said nothing.

"Or," The synth raised his hands, "if you'd rather keep it to yourself, that's your prerogative."

"Dead."

Valentine blinked. Mosby hadn't meant for the word to come out, didn't even realize he'd said it until a few silent seconds had passed.

"Dead," Valentine repeated.

"I died."

"I'm sure it felt that way, but-"

"You don't understand." Mosby's voice went hard, the words dripping with bitterness. "After that fucker injected me, I died. Somehow, I'm not-somehow I woke up, whatever was in that damn mixture woke me up. I died, and I see it, feel it-" Mosby prodded his forehead, the knuckle cracking with the force of it, "over and over and over. You have any fucking idea what that's like?"

The detective blew out a low sigh. "No, can't say I do. Closest I've got is a dead man's brain, but I don't remember the nitty-gritty of it. Believe we were already separate folks by the time the end came."

"It's-" Mosby shook his head. "I've spent all my days taking blood and lives. I regretted some. Even mourned a few of 'em. Watched some die slow and painful, others so quick you could miss it if you blinked. Thought I'd felt every emotion the thought of death could bring me. But I've never felt anything like this."

Neither said anything for a time. The fire filled the air with its gentle crackling, uncaring about the simple matters of life and death.

Finally, with waves of exhaustion pulling him toward sleep, Mosby forced the words out.

"I don't-" He cleared his throat, tried again. "I can't usually stand this sort of..." He searched for the word, "proximity. But-now, don't get the wrong idea, I'm sure you're swell, and all, but I'm not interested in any sort of anything with anyone, you understand? I'm not trying to start anything here."

"Feeling's mutual."

"I...well, at the moment, much as it pains me to say, I need somebody to watch my back. To wake me up...to make sure I don't wake up dead. And for some damn reason, I trust you. You've done a lot for me already, more than I deserve. And now I'm going to push my luck and ask for a little more."

He could've laughed at how ridiculous he sounded, but couldn't quite muster the strength.

"So, if you don't mind, I'll, uh...well, look, I'll just come out and say it--I'll take you up on that offer of a shoulder."

The synth quirked an eyebrow, studied him for a moment. Then he shrugged off his coat, bundled it up, and settled against the wall on Mosby's left. He held the coat atop his shoulder. "Go ahead."

Mosby nodded, mostly to himself, feeling, more than anything, relief. Relief he wouldn't have to face that dream death alone, at least not for a little while.

Odd. The thought of company used to bring anything but relief.

"Thanks," he grunted. The moment his head found its way onto the makeshift pillow, he was out.

He must have been able to rest at least a few hours, because when he woke there was a beast of a crick in his neck. Mosby ran a hand over the sore muscles, blinked sleep out of his eyes. The sun was sinking lower overhead, they'd better get a move on.

"It's getting dark."

The detective grunted in reply, retrieving the coat as it slipped onto the ground.

Mosby stood, unsteady on his feet. "Thanks."

Valentine nodded, slipping the coat back on. He looked down, suddenly very occupied in studying the ground, and Mosby stopped himself just short of making a smart-ass quip about bashful bots.

It was a long moment before the detective spoke.

"Should thank you, too."

Mosby looked up as he kicked dirt over the fire, waving a hand to clear the smoke.

Valentine continued,

"I remember when I-when Nick would do that sort of thing, back before the war. Get close to people, I mean. Never got the inkling for the...more, uh, carnal habits, but, well-" He scoffed, directing the sound to the dirt. "Two hundred year's a long time without a hug. Not that I...But, hell, even handshakes are hard to come by. When you look like this, nobody wants to touch you. And why would they? Can't blame 'em for fearing the metal man."

He fell silent.

Mosby scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot. How he hated sentimental shit. Mostly hated that he had a soft spot for it.

"When people won't even pat you on the back, it's easy to forget your humanity. To get yourself thinking maybe you are the monster they say you are."

"Humanity," Valentine echoed, shaking his head. "Seems harder and harder to come by these days."

The man across the fire retrieved his hunting rifle and slung it over his shoulder. "I think you're doing a pretty decent job of keeping it alive."

After a moment, Valentine pushed himself to his feet. "Let's get going."

They walked the rest of the way to Diamond City in silence, finding the way mostly clear save for a pack of rapid dogs on the city's outskirts. As they entered the market, Valentine spotted a familiar face.

"Ah, the Vault Dweller returns." He turned. "S'pose here's where we part ways, unless you'd like to take on another case."

"One was quite enough for me. I know that lead on Kellogg wasn't much, but I hope you can find him." Mosby paused by the All Faiths Chapel, reached for the door. He needed a minute of quiet, hoped it might help clear his head of that swirling, cold darkness. "Hope you find that kid, too."

Valentine tucked his hands in his pockets. "Good luck on that Vault-Tec mystery of yours. The Commonwealth's full of secrets, just a matter of sniffing them out. And if you ever change your mind on helping out on a case, there's always plenty on the table."

Mosby nodded. After a moment, he offered his hand to the detective.

"Good working with you."

Valentine accepted the handshake. "See you around, kid."

He'd just turned toward the Chapel when a voice called out, "Hey, mister!"

He recognized the Wright sister by her salesperson holler, which could cut through the air of the market, over the half-dozen others hawking their wares. He almost ignored it, almost, until the shout came again,

"Hey, Mister Vault-Tec, I'm talking to you!"

Mosby blew out a sharp sigh and turned toward her. "Guess I'll answer to anything these days."

"You were working with Piper on something, weren't you?" Nat Wright asked, standing atop her usual crate, though she held no paper in her hand.

"Maybe."

"On a weapon, something hidden-"

He moved closer, and hissed, "Keep your voice down."

"I think Piper's hunting for it."

"She in the office?"

Nat shook her head. "She's gone. Left with that Minuteman with the funny hat."

"How long ago?"

"Yesterday."

Mosby swore. He'd all but forgotten about that conversation with the reporter, given the reception at Bunker Hill and the hell that'd followed.

"You know where they're headed?"

"Uh-uh. Wouldn't talk to me. They think I'm too young or something, but I can fight just as good as anybody!"

"Yeah, sure, kid." Mosby was already walking away, headed for the gates.

Left wandering again. Hell.

As he left Diamond City just as soon as he'd entered, his left fist began to curl and uncurl.

A man in hooded rags stood in the middle of the market, eyes darting between the receeding backs of Detective Nick Valentine, on his right, and the figure he'd come to know as the Vault Dweller, on his left.

Coulda sworn he was dead...

After a moment, he turned and followed the latter out the city gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick Valentine is aroace and so is Fitz Mosby, thanks for coming to my TedTalk.


End file.
